


Disembodied Politic

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: Courfeyrac goes to a party at Jehan Prouvaire's, gets into an argument, and (sort of) loses a bet.  Written for the Bishop Myriel Fundraiser.





	Disembodied Politic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oilan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/gifts).



> Thanks to genarti and PilferingApples for looking this over, and to PilferingApples for historical information re: séances and the title!!

Courfeyrac shook out his curls, then frowned at his reflection. They looked more reminiscent of a poodle than an attractively disheveled and thoroughly dashing man who would be a welcome addition to a party of Romantic poets and painters. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, which produced a much happier effect. He didn’t trouble with the rest of his clothing. A neatly fitted waistcoat and trousers were more than enough for an evening with Jehan Prouvaire’s friends.

At least he knew Bahorel would be there. Otherwise Courfeyrac would have to entertain himself with the company of badly-dressed, hashish-addled dreamers. He’d done that before, and enjoyed it, but Bahorel’s presence would be very welcome, like a gust of wind clearing out the mists of half-formed poetry and opiates and passionate but vague sentiments.

The April evening was cold and drizzly. Nature refused to indulge Courfeyrac’s longing for warm breezes and flowers; instead, it clung stubbornly to the tail end of winter with the persistent gloom of an adolescent boy in a sulking fit. Courfeyrac did not sulk, or at least told himself he didn’t, but even he would have admitted he was in a fine old _grump_ by the time he entered the beflowered, skull-studded, silk-draped cavern that was Prouvaire’s apartment. Nonetheless, he felt a surge of affection as he crossed the threshold. The apartment was like one of Prouvaire’s more apocalyptic poems combined with one of his odes to spring, and then made manifest. It was impossible to enter and not to feel oneself embraced by Jehan Prouvaire.

“You’ve gathered a nice crowd,” Courfeyrac said, as Prouvaire came up to embrace him in a more literal sense.

“Oh, yes,” Prouvaire said. “Bahorel’s there--” Courfeyrac followed Prouvaire’s gesturing hand to see Bahorel standing by the fireplace, unsurprisingly. “--and Jeanne-Marie, she’s a poet, and you know those fellows over there, Allard and Beaufort and Martinez--”

Courfeyrac knew those fellows. Courfeyrac had spoken to those fellows in varying states of sobriety at past gatherings. They were good fellows. He would not call any of them bosom friends. But he had heard many of their speculations on the nature of the cosmos, love, art, and hashish. He hailed them with enthusiasm, and then settled back into an armchair to listen to an excited back-and-forth about art he only half-understood. Prouvaire had a delightfully squashy armchair, and Courfeyrac claimed it whenever he came to visit. He slung his legs over the side and sipped at his wine, idly putting in a word when he felt strongly about something, or thought he could provoke someone else who did.

But Courfeyrac was not made for sitting mildly while others railed and ranted. That was Combeferre’s natural role. And so when he heard Prouvaire raise the subject of André Chénier, and call the man a _martyred prophet_ and a _man before his time_ , Courfeyrac had to speak up.

“Oh? And what was he prophesying, when he said the Revolution was complete with a constitutional monarchy?

Prouvaire flushed, and set his jaw. “An artist like Chénier can’t be judged purely on his stance on the issue of the day. A man with his gaze fixed on the brightest star may misjudge the ant.” 

“The Revolution was more than an ant,” Courfeyrac said, nettled. He looked around at the den of artists and dreamers, silently challenging them to disagree, to say something about how all political strife was insignificant compared to art or some such foolishness—but none did, though some found elsewhere to look. “If a man is thoroughly wrong on the _issue of the day_ , as you put it, the subject most dear and pressing to his fellow men living at the same time and in the same place as him, then how can he be a prophet?”

Martinez—whose masculinity Courfeyrac was not sure of: he or she wore trousers, but that was no sure sign in Prouvaire’s circles, and Martinez was also suspiciously delicate-skinned, though that was no sure sign either--cut in. “One may be wise in the realm of art, while foolish about politics. Or wise about the future, while foolish about the present.”

“He may be a holy fool,” Jeanne-Marie murmured. “Oh, you know, the St. Francis sort, the kind who walk around with no worldly cares. Bumping into things and wearing rags, because they’re too busy thinking of the Infinite.”

“Exactly,” said Prouvaire. “He saw the deeper truths, even if he could not correctly apply them. Why, if he lived now, if he saw the way the Charter’s been implemented, I would swear he’d be a republican.”

That was too much. “Oh, _come now_!” Courfeyrac vaguely made as if to stand, but the armchair was too squashy, and so he just flailed a bit. “First of all, while I’m no artist, and I must bow to all of your knowledge of _that_ realm, I’ve heard enough of your talk to question the very idea of being wise in art while thoroughly foolish in politics. Surely if a man’s ideal Revolution would enshrine a constitutional monarchy, he _must_ have missed some fundamental truth about liberty. And surely if he praises Charlotte Corday’s murder of Marat as glorious, he must have missed some truth about glory, let alone humanity. Surely that would diminish the greatness of his art.” There were rumblings of argument, but Courfeyrac was in full swing. “Second of all, a republican? The Charter was the limit of Chénier’s dreams! He would despise republicans now as he did then.”

“We could ask him.”

That was Bahorel, who had been ominously silent till now, standing by a pot of flowers on the mantel. Courfeyrac had once had a very noisy cat whose silences he had learned to watch out for, because they invariably meant something had been broken or torn up. That cat had long since departed for celestial realms, but she probably had been a spiritual sister of Bahorel’s.

Courfeyrac did not know what Bahorel had meant by _ask him_ , but he would not give Bahorel the satisfaction of inquiring. He simply cocked an eyebrow at Bahorel, and pursed his lips, doing his best Combeferre impression.

Prouvaire evidently didn’t have to ask. “Of _course_ ,” he said, grinning broadly. “Why discuss hypotheticals, when we can test the matter?”

“A séance,” Martinez said, nodding sagely.

Courfeyrac stifled a laugh. “I didn’t realize you were communing with the dead, Prouvaire. That is, I always knew you _would_ , I just didn’t know you _could_.” 

“What is time or mortality to the communion of one artist’s soul to another? Such kinship knows no fleshly limitations.” That was Allard, who was always exactly what Courfeyrac expected. He bit his lip.

“It doesn’t always succeed,” Prouvaire allowed. “I’ve only tried it twice before.”

“And did it work?” Courfeyrac was interested, if also amused. He was perfectly willing to affirm the possibility of communion with spirits, unlike some skeptical friends he could name.

Prouvaire frowned. “Once it did. The other time—I’m not sure.”

“That’s a very inconsiderate spirit, then,” said Courfeyrac. “The least he could do is make himself known.”

“It was Corneille,” put in Jeanne-Marie.

“Surely Chénier wouldn’t be so demure. He was hardly noted for being shy with his opinions when he lived,” said Bahorel, who seemed very enthusiastic about this séance idea. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if Bahorel truly believed anything would come of it, or whether he was just having fun egging on Prouvaire.

If the latter, he was certainly succeeding. Prouvaire’s eyes had lit up. “Oh, yes,” he said, “and Chénier might favor us with a new poem! Imagine that.”

There was a collective murmur of awe and delight. Everyone was plainly captivated by the notion of extracting another poem from a dead monarchist. Courfeyrac, never wanting to be a wet-blanket, surrendered to the general mood. “Very well, then, let’s do it. Prouvaire, if he tells you he would be a republican, I shall...” He searched his mind for a good wager. “I shall...buy you a new waistcoat.”

“That’s a gift for you, not for me,” Prouvaire retorted. “No, if he says he would be a republican, then you shall attend a poetry reading with me, and Jeanne-Marie, and a few others I know, at midnight two weeks from today. And if Chénier says he would still be a monarchist, then...” Prouvaire gave a deep sigh, as if what he were about to say grieved him beyond measure, but honor compelled him to say it nonetheless. “Then I will attend a dance with you.”

“And ask a lady to dance,” Courfeyrac amended.

Prouvaire’s eyes grew very wide but, brave man that he was, he nodded. “Very well.” He pushed a small three-legged table into the center of the room. They all crowded round it solemnly. Courfeyrac, not wanting to abandon his armchair, simply pushed it closer. With great ceremony, Bahorel went from candle to candle, snuffing each out. The window let in moonlight, so the room was not pitch dark, but it was thick with shadows, and Courfeyrac had a sense of being underwater. 

Prouvaire pulled out a pendulum. “He may communicate with us by swinging this, or by thumping the table-leg, or some other means entirely.” He placed the pendulum at the center of the table, and shut his eyes.

Everyone followed suit, including Courfeyrac, only to open his eyes immediately. How was anyone to see the pendulum swing if everyone had their eyes closed? Were they counting on the spirit to make some noise first? But no one else was cheating, and after a moment he felt dishonorable, so he shut his eyes again. And then he felt curious, so he opened them, and repeated the sequence again and again. At least _he_ would see if there was any movement.

The room was very silent and very still. Courfeyrac felt like he could hear each breath of each person. When he opened his eyes, he saw the gleam from the moon through the window turn the crown of the skull on the opposite wall a sickly white. In spite of himself he felt a tremor, and then a wave of mirth. What fools grown men became in the dark.

Was there a faint rushing sound, as from a breeze, or was he imagining it? It was too easy to imagine, surrounded by highly susceptible people in an unlit room. Imagination became a felt reality and soon one became a small child terrified of what lurked under the bed, or in the far shadowy corner, or just outside the door on the landing…

Oh, what nonsense. Courfeyrac ordered himself to stop it.

There was a tap-tapping sound, coming from the table. Someone gasped. Courfeyrac’s eyes flew open and he turned to look at Bahorel, but Bahorel was sitting on the floor, too far away to have kicked the table. 

“André Chénier,” Jehan Prouvaire said, his eyes opened now. “Is it you? Tap twice for yes, three times for no, if you please.”

Two taps. Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed, and he looked around, but he saw no sign of mischief.

“Welcome,” said Prouvaire. There was a tremor in his voice now. The dear man had become shy, in the presence, real or imagined, of his idol. “We—we’re all artists here, and admirers of your work.” Prouvaire shot Courfeyrac a glance, as if warning him to be silent and not deny any _admiration_. “I--” He coughed. “I’m a poet.”

Another two taps. Courfeyrac supposed that was a sign of approval. Was it really Chénier? He was very happy for Prouvaire, if so, but--

“Do you have any poems you’ve written, since you died?” No euphemisms such as _crossed over_ for Prouvaire—a thing Courfeyrac had always liked about him.

Two taps. Prouvaire let out a delighted sound that didn’t quite manage to be a word. “Will you do us the honor of sharing them?”

A long series of taps, rattling the table so that Beaufort almost fell over. The taps didn’t sound like they were in any kind of rhythm, or held coded messages. In a pale scrap of light, Courfeyrac could see Jeanne-Marie frowning. “Prouvaire, maybe he _can’t_ share them. Maybe his poems are only for those over there, with him.”

This made Prouvaire frown in turn. “ _Can_ you share your poems? Is it permitted?”

Three taps. Prouvaire looked crushed. But Courfeyrac was not to be diverted from his purpose, even as he suspected someone was playing some trick he couldn’t see, possibly with a string. “Ask if he knows about the Charter,” he hissed.

“Ah—M. Chénier, are you familiar with our current government? The Charter, and Charles X?” Two taps. Prouvaire grinned, and whispered, “Of course he is. He wouldn’t let the grave stop him from keeping up with the history of his people.” Out loud, he said, “If you were alive right now, would you support the Charter?”

Silence.

Prouvaire, undeterred, rephrased the question. “Would you be a republican in today’s world?”

Still silence, and then Courfeyrac’s eye was caught by the movement of something shiny. The pendulum was swinging. Slowly at first, and then frantically, with something of the frenzy of a Maenad cavorting with Dionysus.

Was this meant to be an answer? And if so, meant by who? Chénier, or a mischievous guest?

The pendulum slowed, as they all watched in fascination. Eventually it stilled.

“Enough,” Bahorel said, after more silence and stillness than any warm-blooded human could bear. Courfeyrac had exercised all his might not to fidget, with only moderate success. “That’s as much of an answer as we’ll get. You can’t force the spirits, Jehan.”

“You’re right,” Prouvaire said, melancholy all over his dark, fine-featured face, as he turned it to the shine of the window. “It was a great thing to commune with him, even so briefly, and so confusingly.”

“Cheer up,” Courfeyrac said, not wanting to see him saddened. “I will give you the wager. After all, he didn’t clearly say he’d be a monarchist. I’m at your disposal for this--” He heroically repressed a shudder. “Poetry reading.”

“Oh!” Prouvaire turned to him. “But that’s not fair at all. He didn’t say he would be a republican. I should pay the wager, not you.”

“You can both pay it,” Bahorel said, cheerful at the thought of teasing them both, and Courfeyrac made a face at him.

Prouvaire, sweet fellow that he was, thought this a fine compromise. “Yes, all right! I will go to a ball with you, and ask a lady to dance--” He said that with no hesitation, for which Courfeyrac gave him credit. “--and you will come to the poetry reading, and we will be even.”

_Evenly miserable_ , Courfeyrac thought, but did not say. “We have a bargain,” was all he said, and added to his list of grievances against André Chénier.


End file.
